


Playing the Slot Machine

by T Verano (t_verano)



Category: The Sentinel (TV)
Genre: Community: sentinel_thurs, M/M, Sentinel Thursday, There should be a tag for amuse-bouche fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-23
Updated: 2015-01-23
Packaged: 2020-03-08 19:19:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18901003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/t_verano/pseuds/T%20Verano
Summary: Blair rolls the dice and hits the jackpot.(Tiny fic! Not even an appetizer-sized fic! Just a tease!)





	Playing the Slot Machine

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Sentinel Thursday challenge 147 'quivering with...'

The (really well-muscled) shoulder beneath Blair's hand was quivering. Blair hadn't seen Jim's face yet — that was the problem with approaching Jim's desk from the back — and that almost imperceptible quiver could be from anger (Blair hadn't been playing fair, after all), but somehow he didn't think so.

"Hey," he said, by way of (public) greeting, and got his first look at Jim's expression.

Not anger — laughter. Laughter Jim was trying very hard to hide, but laughter.

"You heard me, huh?" Blair said, to make sure, since Jim could be laughing at something else; somebody in the bullpen could have just finished telling a joke, or —

"Loud and clear, Chief," Jim answered, so yeah, the laughter was for him. Or for the (future), (physical ), ( _very_ physical) activities he'd suggested (very, very quietly) on his way up to the bullpen in the elevator whenever he'd had the elevator all to himself.

Everything he'd suggested _would_ be fun, after all.

Jim rolled his chair back. "I'm done for the day," he said, his voice throaty, like he was trying to swallow back more laughter. "Let's get out of here." He put his hand on the small of Blair's back and gave Blair a gentle push in his "let's move along here" shtick, and Blair sucked in a sudden deep breath. Through the thin cotton of his shirt, he could feel Jim's thumb moving in a discreet little back-and-forth line, warm and purposeful, and that meant…

_Jackpot._ That meant that the thrum he'd felt underneath his palm when he'd had it on Jim's shoulder hadn't just been from laughter. 

Even though everything he'd suggested _was_ going to be fun.


End file.
